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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26103817">sands and skies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiditallbefore/pseuds/saiditallbefore'>saiditallbefore</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, I make no promises about historical accuracy, Middle Ages, Pre-Canon, Temporary Character Death, silk road</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:55:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26103817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiditallbefore/pseuds/saiditallbefore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The desert had changed little in the centuries Quynh had been away.  It was still the same unending sands, stretching out in all directions until it touched the never-ending sky.</i>
</p><p>Or, Quynh and Andromache travel the Silk Road.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Short August Medieval Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sands and skies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/gifts">Shadaras</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The desert had changed little in the centuries Quynh had been away.  It was still the same unending sands, stretching out in all directions until it touched the never-ending sky.  The setting sun tinted everything red and gold, and in the far distance, rocky cliffs jutted up darkly against the horizon.</p><p>Andromache stood behind her, gently untangling Quynh’s hair and twisting it back up.</p><p>“Remember when we met?” Andromache asked.</p><p>Dying of thirst in the desert, because she’d struck out alone and had lost her way.  Waking, and expecting to find herself alone, as always, and instead finding Andromache.</p><p>Quynh smiled.  “I remember.”</p><p>Andromache pinned Quynh’s hair into place, using the gold hairpin they’d purchased in Constantinople— one of the few ornaments either of them wore.</p><p>A sharp whistle stopped them both in their tracks.  Quynh grasped her bow, out of instinct, but there was no apparent danger, only Rashid ibn Bakkar, head of the merchant caravan they had been hired to guard.  </p><p>“We’re stopping for the night,” ibn Bakkar said.  He gestured back a few hundred paces, where the rest of the caravan had already begun to assemble their camp for the night.</p><p>Andromache slung her axe over her back, following ibn Bakkar. </p><p>“I’ll join you in a few minutes,” Quyhn said.  </p><p>Andromache smiled, touching Quynh’s cheek gently.  “I’ll see if they have any pomegranates left for you.”</p><p>Those had been a pleasant surprise at the last caravansary; any fresh fruit was a luxury on a journey like this one, but pomegranates were a favorite treat of Quynh’s, on the occasions she could get them.  They reminded her of the islands she and Andromache had visited, with sandy coasts reaching out to touch the impossibly blue sea.</p><p>Maybe they would visit there again, once they had seen ibn Bakkar’s caravan safely to the end of their journey.  That would be some months yet, as they still had to reach Chang’an, and then make the return journey to Constantinople— and then, perhaps, to ibn Bakkar’s home in Al-Andalus, if Quynh and Andromache agreed.  It was a long journey, but it had been easy work; thus far, they’d fended off more wild animals than bandits.</p><p>The sun sank behind the horizon, and Quynh turned toward the camp, where a fire was already crackling and some kind of meat was cooking.  She caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, and dismissed it, thinking it was one of the camels.  Then, she heard a cough.  </p><p>She whirled to face the noise, an arrow at the ready.  </p><p>“Come out,” she demanded.  </p><p>Half a dozen bandits seemed to materialize from nowhere, brandishing weapons.  Quynh shot one immediately, and he collapsed with a shout.  She tried to take aim at another, but they were still in the middle of the herd of camels, and Quynh didn’t want to kill or injure one of the animals.</p><p>The noise had brought Andromache running, several of the caravan members behind her, but the bandits were already fleeing.</p><p>“We could catch up with them,” Andromache said.</p><p>Sulayman ibn Al-Hasani, ibn Bakkar’s right-hand man, shook his head.  “We’ll take stock of our supplies.  Likely they didn’t take anything important.”</p><p>At these words, his men quickly organized themselves into action, and Quynh and Andromache removed themselves back to the fire, where supper was still waiting.  Quynh had only just finished her serving of roasted mutton when ibn Al-Hasani and ibn Bakkar called the two of them back over to the camels.</p><p>“We’re missing the Paradise Garden tapestry,” ibn Bakkar said.  “It’s one of the most valuable we brought.”</p><p>That was saying something, as all of the textiles ibn Bakkar had brought were supposed to be incredibly valuable in Chang’an.  There, they would be traded for silk, spices, and other goods, which ibn Bakkar and his company could take back to Constantinople or Al-Andalus and sell.  </p><p>Losing one tapestry, even a valuable one, wasn’t the end of the world.  But it <em>was</em> exactly why Quynh and Andromache were along. </p><p>“We’ll get it back,” Andromache said, resolve lacing her voice.</p><p>Quynh nodded.  “We’ll begin tracking the thieves as soon as it’s light.”  </p><p>When dawn came, Quynh and Andromache were ready.  They traveled light, with only their weapons and the clothes on their backs; they didn’t need anything else.</p><p>Quynh let Andromache take the lead when they began tracking; Quynh had keener eyes, but Andromache had several thousand years more experience at following even the faintest of trails.  On occasion, Quynh would think that they had surely lost the trail, that the shifting desert sands had wiped away all trace of the thieves, only for Andromache to spot something she’d overlooked. </p><p>They moved mostly in silence, with the ease born of long partnership.  Being with Andromache had always been easy, in a way that was impossible to explain to outsiders: they were two of a kind, and together they would outlive everyone they ever met on their journeys.  But it was the years of traveling together, of fighting side-by-side, of sleeping in the same tents or in a bedroll under the stars, that had given Quynh the bone-deep understanding of Andromache she had now.</p><p>Their path had taken them across a stretch of barren desert, and close to a rocky outcropping.  It was easy enough to imagine a cave on the far side that might serve as shelter for a bandit group.</p><p>Quynh and Andromache shared a look, and, with their weapons at the ready, they began to circle around the rock formation.  But as the camp came into sight, Quynh stopped short.  There were dozens of low-slung tents, and women and children.  There were horses, though only a few.  This was no bandit camp, here merely to prey on unsuspecting travelers.  This was something closer to a nomadic village.</p><p>Quynh slung her bow back over her shoulder.  “You’re certain they came from here?”</p><p>Andromache nodded decisively.</p><p>Most likely it had been a simple theft, in which case she and Andromache could simply deal with the thieves and take the tapestry back to the caravan.  But they’d both run into regional politics and misunderstandings before, and it was best to have all the information before they made any additional enemies.</p><p>Besides, it wasn’t like any mistakes would be fatal to either of <em>them</em>.</p><p>Andromache called out to the group in Arabic, a language they both shared with ibn Bakkar and his caravan.  A few of the villagers looked at them suspiciously, but there was no response— or at least, none that Quynh noticed.  </p><p>“I don’t think they understood,” Andromache said.</p><p>“Let me try,” Quynh said.  They’d both been learning Mandarin, the language common in Chang’an and the surrounding region, from ibn Al-Hasani, who had traveled this route before, but Quynh had been quicker to pick it up.  She suspected it was because the sounds, though different from the languages she had learned to speak in recent years, bore a passing resemblance to the mother tongue she had learned as a child, before her first death.</p><p>“We’re looking for a—”  The word for tapestry escaped her.  “For a fabric.  It was stolen.”</p><p>There was some muttering from the villagers.  Then, one of them loosed an arrow in Quynh and Andromache’s direction.  It went wide, but it was followed by others.  One struck Quynh in the leg, but she gritted her teeth against the pain; it would heal quickly enough.  </p><p>Quynh drew her own bow.  Though she was only one person, she was a better shot than any of these villagers.  </p><p>“We just want the— the fabric back!” she exclaimed, between shots.</p><p>“I don’t think they’re listening,” Andromache muttered.  She’d drawn her axe, and began to stride toward the villagers.</p><p>Quynh loosed another arrow.</p><p>A short, sharp cry from Andromache’s direction distracted her for just a moment: Andromache had been felled by a lucky arrow in the chest.  As always, it sent a pang through Quynh’s own chest to see Andromache dead, even knowing that she would rise again.</p><p>“This is your last chance,” she warned the villagers.  None of them seemed to take her seriously.  They never did, at first.  </p><p>Then, one of the villagers screamed.  Quynh smirked; for the unaware, this part was always startling. </p><p>Andromache was already standing again, walking toward the little village as if nothing had happened.  </p><p>There was a great deal of cursing from the villagers, and several words that Quynh had never heard before— she suspected that most of the words one might use for a woman who came back from the dead were not the sort to be commonly used in trade.</p><p>Quynh readied another arrow, but there was no more need for it.  One of the thieves they had tracked from the caravan was holding a rolled-up tapestry over his head, waving it furiously.  </p><p>Hesitantly, Quynh lowered her bow.  Andromache had already lowered her axe.  </p><p>“Take it!” the man said, holding it out to Andromache.  She glanced at it, then tucked it under her arm and turned away.</p><p>Quynh began to follow her, but she paused, glancing around at the villagers.  She’d passed through a thousand poor villages like this before, all of them alike.  If this one was any different, it was only because they were thieves. </p><p>She tugged the hairpin out of her hair.  It probably wasn’t equal in value to the tapestry, but the people here could trade it for whatever they needed.</p><p>An elderly woman was the one brave enough to step forward and take the hairpin from Quynh.  Quynh smiled at her, then joined Andromache.</p><p>As the village passed out of sight, Andromache said, “I can’t believe you paid them for something they stole.”</p><p>“It just didn’t seem right,” Quynh said, defensively.</p><p>Andromache shook her head fondly.  </p><p>“Besides,” Quynh added.  “Now you’ll just have to buy me another one.”</p><p>Andromache laughed, and Quynh joined.  The desert sun beat mercilessly down on them as they trekked back toward ibn Bakkar’s caravan, but Quynh had never been so content before in her life.</p>
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